Magnapoets Free Verse and Form

Burning by bobbi lurie

The arms of the trees open wide


We are here for such a short time



Do not imagine this dream is yours         

Where Pierrot Waits (David Matthews)

My words are penguin ash
bleed like rust, burn magically
the furies of a sunset sky
— oh how I admire
perhaps, yes, too much
one who would break tongue to express
the young lady, seated,
nervous, waiting with fated breath
described opera hills and rose ballet
her voice not unlike a hand full of air
October in Harvard Square!
December birds! saints of shoelaces!
My floor sings like Jesse Fuller
San Francisco Bay Blues — it does —
I swear...
a rainbow of snowbirds bathes the city
not unlike my young beauty
who paints the silences between
the moans of her lovers —
there! Aquamarine, blue, moonglow!
She paints your thoughts belltower alleys
that lead to cartoon stairwells
and the bench at the edge of the canal
where pierrot —
sad white face and floppy hat —
waits...

A "Naive Onlooker" by Elisha Porat

In the empty sky of the desert
above the cone of Herod's fortress
black vultures soared before me.
An enthusiastic nature lover whispered
into her phone, right behind me:
A "naïve onlooker" standing here near me
was confused and didn't realize they were eagles.
And in Lebanon, above an emplacement under fire,
a know-it-all officer snickered into the handset:
A naïve reservist here with me
identified the sounds of "mortar fire",
but you already know
the sickening whistle of an incoming missile.
And only the doctor on duty behind the screen
consoled me drily in secret:
It is not a panic attack, my son,
it is the real thing

Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner

This Land Trembling Under Our Feet by Eliaz Cohen

This land trembling under our feet is
a wild lioness.
For some time now it is a wild lioness screaming her wounds
from the nipples they want to uproot her cubs
now her roar rolls on

this land trembling under our feet
will shake us (like a rug its dust before Passover)
only those who are tsumund in their souls will remain

this land trembling under our feet on that day will split
from the northern Dead Sea she will ooze in a dense river of milk and honey
in the milk and honey river that will adhere us to it
as is the custom of all rivers
to the sea

translated from the Hebrew by Larry Barak

Threshold On Dreaming Lost (Joseph Armstead)

         It is a window open on an endless summer
         and I wish I could stretch my hands out
         into the light and gather it to me
         like the soft wool of dreaming
         and I remember her here, in this place

I can't make up my mind
whether or not I heard
voices in the wind,
music from far away lands,                       the lacey curtains reach for me
or if I dreamt                                              like the outstretched arms of
as the wind from the sea                          a ghost, like a memory 
caressed                                                     I have tried to escape
my sleeping form   

                                                                       it pours into the hollow places
                                                                       in my mind like molten gold

                                    I remember her here, in this place,
                                    where we held hands and danced
                                    across sands made warm from the many
                                    lovers who waltzed or tangoed or skipped
                                    like happy children in the times
                                    before us, I remember her skin glowing
                                    in the light just before sunset
   
I am a lurker at the threshold                                it hurts, this waking dream,
                                                                           hurts to think back
                                                                           on all the stories
                                                                           my heart wants to tell
                                                                           about a magical time,
                                                                           in a magical place,
                                                                           where the wind
                                                                           off the rolling waves
                                                                           hisses
                                                                           through my open window

I think it is better to sit here
in the gentle breeze pouring in
past the curtains, remembering
an endless youth of eternal romance,
than it is to go outdoors
where I would have to face
the reality of the open spaces
alone

                                                                  I am the threshold for melancholy
                                                                  on a bright sunbathed day
                                                                  in my room overlooking the beach
                                                                  littered with a million
                                                                  of our kisses...

                                    I remember her here, in this place.

--- fini ---

*************************************************************

Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Blue Gate On Beach" by Sil63, dreamstime_4978754.jpg

Ocean vista, with gulls. by Tom Berman

The wind is whirling the gulls

over a white-capped sea

here, where Pacific ends

On our westward way

we seek by this wild coast

what we know not yet

Only the echoing cry

of the circling gulls,

red-tipped beaks

glassy-eyed

uncaring

if they know,

or know not,

what message is borne

on the wind’s gusts

or rolls ashore

on the breaking waves

carried five thousand miles

by an oblivious ocean

The wind is chill

We clamber back

into the calm cabin

of our vehicle,

head south

Perhaps,

tomorrow,

we may be wiser

than the gulls.

Eternity by Ivanka Deneva

   

Along the raging curves of waves
Passes the wear glimmer of the sunset.
And there gallop, maddened, our days -
Our of fear, love - or just by habit.
The sea - caressing and toil-worn -
Reflects the mournful clouds above.
And with the flutter of wings or hope
Flickers an emerald haze.
In that peacefulness a white instant
Softly and celestially melts
And the sea expanse keeps quiet,
The sea again remains and lives
And then eternity and transience embrace
On the pale line of the distance
And kept subdued, they slowly float
To the mute chamber of silence.

Translated by Lilyana Petkova

image taken and copyrighted by Poppy

Recapitulation by Bobbi Lurie

I wanted a new beginning

It is foolish to think we don’t see each other
I needed air and dreamt of the window
Then sat by the window

Low Low Low

That’s what the shamans say

Lose the velvet outfit
The pearl earrings

I love my old pajamas

              *

Driving here in the rain

---streets flooding---

I noticed people were laughing
             caught in the storm

No need to protect their shoes
             cover their heads
             save their jackets

Everything ruined

*

At the end my father wore a diaper
   unable to speak
             or feed himself
             fed through a tube

Still I swallow vitamins, peel carrots
Boil water for tea

I wake up and plan what to bring, what to wear

             look in the drawer
             find the purple socks

POET ABSENT OF LANGUAGE

POET ABSENT OF LANGUAGE by Bobbi Lurie

Airless script of her situation
Repeated into the ordinary
Masking

Her empty life
Fill it with Muzak
Fill it with the repeatable

Stay inside the poem
Talk to the always companion
The lover forever imagined

A man with his hand
She forgets where the soft
Indelibly so

How the famous poet she knows
    speaks of Eastern Europe
Not the boxcars death camps
Just job offer
    atmosphere

She started poetry too late
Gray shape on the table
The poets she loves she loves

She walked into another room
    a language
Human skin turned into
Human hair stuffing the inside of

Whatever the centerpiece
Whatever interior of
The body a house like pain

The cool breeze the open window
Dark coolness
Black boots of visitors

The grass trampled
On the way
To becoming

So many in these rooms
Oblivious of sunlight
Filled with sunlight

The Andalusian Ideal of Beauty by Elisha Porat

One:  here is a palm tree, green, tall,
a provider of shade.  Two:  here is a lemon tree,
sweet smelling, wild, heavy with white flowers.
Three:  and here we have the red rose.  Which is the blood
that nests in the garden, above the flowing creek.
On its thorns even the hardest hearts
are caught and sliced in two, the better to nourish
the twin soils:  which are the warm golden
soft silk that rests above a silvery
hillside.  Dark and damp, a leafy threesome.
Here is a final sum:  in which is included an erect
palm, the lemony scent pouring like juice,
and the thick thorny blood of the rose running
into the culvert, washed in the heat of the afternoon, then
clotting, soaking the dusk, to percolate slowly up the wall.

translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner